


and you're weak in your lungs (and you hold it above your head)

by Fireflies12



Series: the hill i'll die on is about 90 meters of bricks (colored indigo and inscribed with my name) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, can be read as clara/hotgirl but can also be read platonically, clara hot girl and hotter girl WILL all have their own tags by the time im done with them, dont try me i will write enough content for them, i'm updating my list of demands, mostly they/them in this tho for ease of writing, no hotter girl in this but still, they/them and she/her pronouns for hot girl because i say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireflies12/pseuds/Fireflies12
Summary: For a long, long time, she worked.But after a long while, there was one that could see her.Or:Author is still in love with a female astronaut named Clara and wrote more about her.
Relationships: Clara (Dream SMP) & Hot Girl (Dream SMP), Clara (Dream SMP)/Hot Girl (DreamSMP), can also be read as - Relationship, i hope those show up in the right order, written platonic but can also be read as romantic between clara and hot girl
Series: the hill i'll die on is about 90 meters of bricks (colored indigo and inscribed with my name) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058759
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	and you're weak in your lungs (and you hold it above your head)

When Clara was young, there were only two types of flowers- dandelions and roses. They grew sparse and rare in the grass, a precious treasure to be plucked and delicately held to not damage the sweet-smelling petals.

Her mother used to mind a plot of wild-growing roses by their house, keeping away weeds with gentleness her father’s wheat farming didn’t hold and watering them with a routine the wild grasses didn’t need.

She remembered those flowers- there were no bees, only large, glimmering dragonflies with iridescent wings that glinted as they flew, and so her mother would hand-pollinate each one, staining her fingernails with the soft yellow pollen, and in Spring the new flowers would bloom delicate and bright, existing only because of her mother’s tireless work.

She used to sit with Charles, making crowns from the long wild grasses and wondering if the roses wanted to be crowns as well, despite their thorns.

When she was in university, there were less wild grasses, but the ground was soft and mossy outside, and the trees bloomed with their pale pink blossoms. She didn’t have time for flower crowns then, but she would watch children visiting loved ones in the university weave from the reedy leaves and bright flowers.

There were no wild flowers in space, but her crewmate had a pressed dandelion from her mother, a good luck charm and a hope, that she held carefully as she stared out the window.

By the time she got back, all the flowers of her youth had long since rotted away, petals turning to soil and grasses taking root where their stems had been, and for a long time, no flowers grew.

Sometime between cat and blocks, she was wandering, looking for inspiration, when she stumbled upon a village. It’s houses were neat and wooden, wooden cubes on clear paths, and the language of the villagers was equally neat and precise.

But what caught her most off guard were the flowers.

They bloomed in the tall grasses by the edges of the village, dandelions and roses, clumps of sweet plants that young villagers picked and tied together into bright crowns and bracelets and chains.

There were no dragonflies- there hadn’t been for a long, long time- but there were young children with grabby, soft hands, and there were parents who cared for the flowers with gentle weeding and routine watering.

Her breath hitched, and she could smell the flowers, could feel the pollen on her tongue and in her lungs.

There were new flowers, after a long, long time. They weren’t familiar- their names felt strange in her mouth, made for another language entirely, even though she knew what they meant and how to say them.

There were sunflowers, tall and reedy and reaching, always climbing into the sky like they needed it to live. They needed the sun like she needed the stars, like fish needed water, like cows needed oxygen.

The lilacs were many-petaled and splitted, clumps of fragrant petals that weren’t ready to become one quite yet. They shifted easily in the wind, fragile blooms clinging to the stem and almost tearing as the breeze tugged at them, not built for life but built even less for death.

Blue orchids were small and short, brilliant petals that stood out against swamp grass when they weren’t mud-streaked and decomposing. Their roots dug deep into the muddy, soft ground, surviving even the coldest winters and most scorching droughts. Tiny specks of dark blue danced on their petals, stubborn in their brightness against the dark swamp.

Deep red rose petals, climbing into bushes and tangles, were nestled into rich green leaves, the thorns guarding them with a hawkishness that was not unlike her own mother’s protection of the flowers. Tiny spiders spun their webs between the thorns, making life where there could be suffering, and the glossy leaves reflected the light.

Tulips existed in all the colors of fire, brilliant petals that curled around a delicate center and whispered with envy in the breeze. They swayed softly, bobbing in the wind, and danced like flames licking at the air.

Paeonias were tall and rare, a single central stem that held only a dozen or so of the large blooms on all of it’s off-sprouts. The layered petals were thick and resistant, the rotten parts peeling away to reveal new growth whenever damaged.

Azure bluets reminded her of the wild grasses there used to be, short and reedy and tube-like. Their petals looked like four-point stars, clumps of flowers on each stem, and it almost seemed like she could hear the buzzing dragonflies of her youth when she looked at them.

Almost everywhere she went, there were alliums- long, nimble stems with bunches of purple petals on each flower, surviving anywhere there was soil and sunlight, handling the tundra and desert with equal success.

The daisies that littered the riverbanks and planes were pale, so pale that sand looked deep and saturated next to them, with a brilliant yellow center. They were delicate and small, growing and rotting with equal speed and grace.

For a long, long time, she was alone.

She wrote songs, and she watched over the one who understood, and she wished that the lonely soul who followed him could see her.

For a long, long time, she worked.

But after a long while, there was one who could see her.

They were not born of flesh and blood, and they did not reach for the stars, and they did not remember when the crickets chirped and fathers told their children about the stars and children sounded out blocky letters that felt foreign on their tongue.

They were tall and sturdy, grown in the very forest she had taken to wandering, and they smelled like sap and bark and earth.

Their eyes were dark, like blotches of deep ink against their bright face, and they watched her pace, listening to her speak even though neither of them spoke the other’s language.

In exchange, she tore away the weeds that tried to climb up their legs and listened to their murmerings, not understanding the words but finding comfort in their rough voice.

The two of them communicated in looks and murmurings, not knowing each other’s language but still understanding.

The one who could see her worried about the one who understood, and she agreed.

The one who understood didn’t understand without reason.

The two of them would sit and hum to each other, snippets of melodies and songs without words. The one who could see her would grow flowers from their skin, a familiar pale pink blossom that she had last seen in university, and tell her without words of places below the ground where life sprang in the most unexpected places.

The two of them laid down together under the night sky wearing identical pink flower crowns, and she imagined the worlds they told her about.

Caves where the water blocked out all the light, a dark so all-encompassing that you couldn’t see your own hands. Glowing berries like little stars in the dark, like tiny little suns hung up on a vine. Swift, pink lizards that slipped in and out of the water and swam amongst the lily pads.

She would tell them stories in exchange- a realm made entirely out of dark sky and pale stone, an endless night sky guarded by the fiercest spirits and sharpest winds, accessible to few only through great portals.

They didn’t need words to speak to each other.

**Author's Note:**

> quick everyone give me their headcanons/thoughts on clara, hot girl, and hotter girl so i have things to ~~steal~~ use for future works that are influenced by the fandom


End file.
